


Rite of Movement

by hauntedjaeger (saellys)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Id Fic, Multi, Nonverbal Communication, POV Bisexual Character, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21771334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saellys/pseuds/hauntedjaeger
Summary: When Cara asked if such things are ever crafted from beskar, he recoiled as if she had blasphemed.
Relationships: Cara Dune/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 235





	Rite of Movement

**Author's Note:**

> We all knew I’d get to this one eventually. 
> 
> Title from a Hozier song, because of course it is.

“Okay, hear me out. This is fun and all, but what if we could see him?” 

“I don’t need to see him to do this,” Omera says. 

“No, obviously, but he’s already face-down, so why not turn the light on?” 

“I think that would be pushing the rule.” 

“We wouldn’t be seeing anything new. We already know what color his hair is.” If it matches the carpet, that is. 

“Technically,” he says, voice muffled in the pillow, “we’re already pushing it.” 

If a Mandalorian takes off his helmet and no one in the room can see him, does he really break the beloved tenets of his culture? All this time they have banked on the answer being no. The sex is good, and that must be worth a little rule-pushing, a little vulnerability, and as a warm-blooded people, they surely make allowances. 

At least that’s the conclusion she draws, since he keeps sticking around. And if Cara stops and thinks for more than a few seconds about the possibility that that’s not true, and he’s living in some kind of self-ostracized limbo for their sake, her already compromised heart will sustain more damage than she can bear. 

“If you ask me, Omera isn’t pushing it enough.” Cara lays her fingers against Omera’s slender but strong wrist, just above the glove. She feels the tendons flex, but Omera always starts out gentle. 

“You have one job, Dune.” 

Right. With her free hand, Cara feels for his hip and pats it. “How you doing, buddy?” 

“Good. She hasn’t started yet.” 

When she does though, he’ll lose his words real fast. “What if you wear the helmet?” 

“You talk too much,” he says, but she can tell that he’s thinking about it. 

“If the lights are on, you can give me a wave instead of speaking when I check in.” 

He shifts beside her, reaching off the bed toward the floor. 

“Light it up,” he says presently, voice hollow from inside the mask. 

“Copy that,” says Cara, failing to stifle a grin, and she turns on a glowlamp and takes stock of what it illuminates. 

One beautiful young widow, her hair tied back from her face for this occasion. 

One naked man, a flush already spreading over his back because of what the beautiful young widow is doing to him. 

One jar of oil to ease the process. 

One shiny and slightly curved length of durasteel, whose shape suggests an aerodynamic phallus, centered in a nexus of straps, waiting its turn. 

(When Cara asked if such things are ever crafted from beskar, he recoiled as if she had blasphemed.) 

And Cara herself, also naked, even though she only has one job for the time being and must also wait her turn. 

“See?” she says redundantly. 

“That is very nice,” Omera admits, and Cara beams at her. 

They’ve both seen his body before, front and back—but not with Omera’s first finger pressed between two fine and shapely cheeks, working the oil in, her second finger curled in anticipation of joining it. Omera looks down at him like she’s been given something unspeakably valuable. 

“Still good?” Cara asks the Mandalorian. 

He lifts one hand. Still good. 

It’s an important job. He sometimes forgets to speak up, even when it stops being good for him. Omera is single-minded at this sort of thing, and sometimes forgets to check. Cara would be no different in her place, but would be several times more forceful, which is why she leaves this to Omera. (And on other nights, she takes it from Omera, until she too can no longer speak.) 

Cara wraps her arms around her knees and watches Omera work. She watches Omera’s eyes, and the little crease that forms between her brows when she is concentrating very hard. She watches Omera’s forearm tense and relax. 

She watches Omera’s legs, folded beneath her, and thinks about what a waste it is that they spend all day in a pair of waders and never get any sunshine or fresh air. A picnic, that’s what they need. Maybe just her and Omera. Way out in the woods on a nice afternoon, and Cara can stay between those legs until sundown. 

“Checking in,” she says, remembering herself. 

“I’m good,” he tells her. 

Cara watches Omera’s breasts, which are the perfect size and have the loveliest dark nipples. She watches Omera’s hips when Omera rises a little on her knees for leverage. Cara watches Omera’s everything; Omera is everything. 

The Mandalorian groans as Omera changes angle, but waves before Cara can ask. 

Preoccupied though she is, Omera has noted Cara's attention. “I thought you wanted the light on so you could see him,” she says with a tiny, sly smile. 

Cara licks her lips. “New plan,” she declares. She unfolds his arm from under his pillow and considers its many scars as she lays his hand by his hip. “This is a check-in now,” she says, tapping his hip twice. “I tap you, you tap me for okay. You don’t tap back, I stop what I’m doing, and Omera stops what she’s doing—so don’t get lost in it.” 

He taps her hand twice. 

“What are you doing?” Omera asks. 

Cara grins. 

The bed is narrow, and they have to let one of his legs hang off the edge in order for Cara’s shoulders to fit between Omera’s knees. “Aha,” says Omera, smiling down at Cara. “A good notion.” 

It’s awkward, but she gets one arm bent around Omera’s leg and over his, and taps his hip. He taps back. Cara guides Omera down to her. 

For a while, the only things that exist are Omera’s scent, the warmth of her on Cara’s face, and the cream of her on Cara’s tongue. Cara works her mouth between Omera’s folds, and draws the tip of her tongue up to circle Omera’s clit. 

Omera, in turn, does something that makes the Mandalorian growl deep in his chest, and then he finds Cara’s hand and taps it twice, and Cara laughs against Omera, and Omera shifts a little to press herself more firmly against Cara, and already it is a good, good night. 

Cara laps at her cunt and breathes through her nose until Omera gulps air and slants off of Cara. The Mandalorian grunts in surprise, but when Cara taps, he taps. Cara kisses Omera’s trembling thighs and gets out from underneath her. She sits up and puts her wet mouth between Omera’s shoulderblades. She feels drunk from her, buzzing with the taste. “Is he almost ready?” 

“I’ve been ready,” he says, with effort. “Seemed rude to interrupt.” 

“How polite,” Cara says. “Isn’t that polite?” 

“Thoughtful,” agrees Omera, catching her breath. “Help me with this?” 

Gladly. Cara makes sure the harness is right side up, and Omera gets back up so Cara can get it around her. It’s easier to manage in the light. Cara cinches it, careful not to catch the flesh over Omera’s hip. 

When it’s in place, Cara reaches up and takes the carved wooden pins out of Omera’s hair. It tumbles down her back. Cara presses her face against the soft mass of it and breathes in. It smells like the evergreens that ring the village, and like the cookfires at night. Smells like home. 

Omera takes her two fingers out of him and disposes of the glove. She spreads oil on the phallus; Cara peers around her to see how it rests, gleaming and ready, its tip angled up and its base against Omera’s mound. “It’s cold,” Omera says. 

“That’s all right,” he says, and even the helmet can’t modulate the need in his voice. Omera gets on her knees and one hand over him, and Cara traces a finger down one of the straps where it follows Omera’s hip and buttock and then runs forward, secure against her cunt. With her free hand, Omera puts the rounded tip where her fingers were. 

“Never got to watch this before,” she muses, and Cara watches the muscles of her lower back tighten as she pushes into him an inch. 

He makes a choked sound. Cara taps--he taps. 

“Good,” says Omera. “A little more?” Now he finds Omera’s bracing hand and taps it. “Good,” Omera says again, and she leans forward another inch. 

He lets out all the air in his lungs. His leg moves weakly, and Cara takes hold of it at the knee and helps him put it back on the bed. She moves out of the way. He pants, and gets control of himself, and digs his knees and raises his hips. 

“Oh,” Omera laughs, moving quickly to stay with him and adjust for the curve of the phallus. She brushes her hand over his hip. “So eager.” 

The Mandalorian groans in agreement, and underneath that sound, Cara hears something softer. She rounds the bed and presses her ear to the back of his helmet. “Do you have fans in there?” 

“Nmm,” he says. 

“We should kill the lights before he overheats,” says Omera. 

“The view, though,” Cara laments. 

“I know. It’s pretty.” Omera sweeps one hand over the small of his back, and the Mandalorian shudders. “I love you like this,” she tells him, and what Cara can see of his neck grows even redder. “I’m going to take such good care of you.” 

Cara loves it too, the way he puts himself completely in Omera’s hands. With one last appreciative glance at Omera kneeling behind him, Cara sits half on and half off the corner of the bed, her foot near his shoulder. She switches off the glowlamp and carefully, carefully, sets her palms on the sides of his helmet and eases it off of him, then runs one hand through his sweat-soaked hair. 

“I’m going to move now,” Omera says. 

“Yes,” he says faintly. 

A moment later he seizes Cara’s hand and lets out a whine. She frees two fingers and taps his wrist. He taps back. The bed creaks rhythmically. 

“Can you take more than that?” Omera asks. 

“Please,” he slurs into the bedsheet. His grip on Cara tightens to the point of pain. 

“Here?” Omera says. 

He’s huffing now. His fingers tremble. “Hnff. Close.” 

Omera makes a thoughtful sound. “Here,” she tries. 

Her aim is true. He cries out, and Cara puts her free hand on his shoulder, and he pushes against it, shaking and holding his breath, sounds stuck at the back of his throat, and he’s lost in it for nearly a count of ten. 

Then he exhales, and collapses, taking Omera with him. 

“Okay?” Cara checks. He taps her wrist, slowly. “You did so good,” she says, stroking his hair, and he turns his face toward her hand. 

He groans one more time, breath hot against her palm, as Omera removes the phallus. “Very, very good,” she agrees. 

Her praise always gives him a second wind. He lets go of Cara and reaches back for Omera. “Oh, no,” she says, in good humor. “I’m spent, thank you. You can show your gratitude to Cara--she’s been patient.” 

He gropes for Cara, finds her shoulder, pulls himself up to kiss her recklessly. Then he’s pushing her knee aside and dropping back down, and Cara still has only one leg on the bed, but the full press of his tongue on her convinces her not to move. She balls a fist in the sheet for balance, and can’t decide what to do with the other hand. He licks, loud, over the softer mundane sounds of Omera taking off the harness and cleaning up. 

Cara aches from hearing them, from seeing them, from imagining when she couldn’t see. She doesn’t realize how much she aches until he puts just the tip of his tongue inside her and she cries out, her core muscles tensing. 

Omera is there, then, cupping Cara’s chin in her hand and tilting her head back to kiss her, and Cara, on pure reflex, grabs a handful of his hair and presses him deeper. She feels him take a sharp breath through his nose, but he taps her wrist because it’s okay, and his jaw works and his lips move and his tongue, his tongue-- 

She makes a raw noise into Omera’s mouth and she shakes and shakes, until it all pours out and the air is cool once more on her skin. She pants when Omera lets go of her, whines when the Mandalorian takes his tongue away, kisses him when he turns on his back and pulls her down to him. 

A soft cloth falls across both of them. He takes it and wipes himself, and removes the cloth he had underneath him too, and tosses them away. Cara feels Omera check that they’re both on the bed, and then she’s climbing over, and he turns toward Cara to make room. 

Cara gets her arm under his head. Omera reaches across to tug Cara’s hip until it’s flush against his, and she pulls the blanket up before his sweat cools enough to make him shiver. Omera’s cheek rests against Cara’s forearm. 

“I love you,” Cara tells them both. She feels it with a physical effect sometimes, like something pulling her toward them. She loves the trust he puts in them, and the way Omera holds his trust like it’s water from a well, never spilling a drop. Maybe it’s the afterglow, but Cara can’t remember what her life even was before them, or how she made it all those years with no clue what she was missing. 

“I love you, too,” Omera sighs. 

Under the blanket, where the Mandalorian’s arm is tucked up against her and his hand rests over Cara’s heart, he taps twice. 


End file.
